


Authority kink

by aesc, Subtilior



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Anal Sex, Authority Figures, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Graduate School, M/M, Telepathy, Verbal Humiliation, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtilior/pseuds/Subtilior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re going to be in your room, on Skype with full video, when I call you tonight, at … nine o’clock sharp, your time.” </p><p><i>Tonight</i>.</p><p>Erik, a proud and surly graduate student, keeps his deepest, darkest desires under tight control. Charles, his genetics professor, keeps handcuffs on his copy of the university handbook. You can see where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **aesc** wrote the first chapter of this (originally posted [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/674013/chapters/1233341)) and then she and **subtilior** (very slowly) co-wrote the second part after an extended Tumblr exchange and conversation in xmentales.
> 
> So that's where this comes from.

Nearly every day Erik curses and gives thanks for the fact that he'd been putting off his interdisciplinary advanced lab until his last term of coursework. Often, when he's watching Professor Xavier pacing around in front of the projector, gesturing his way through an algorithm, he does both. Judging from the looks on his classmates' faces, vacant with a glaze of admiration on top, Erik's willing to bet that no one has ever appreciated the Seminar in Bioinformatics quite this way before.

Although really, he's appreciating Professor Xavier's very pretty mouth and how his hair is tousled from running his fingers through it, and remembering the time he'd been out for a jog and seen Professor Xavier loping along in running shorts that had done extremely nice things to his thighs. From there his mind segues into those thighs bracketing his head as Erik kneels between them, unzipping those ridiculous khakis and reaching in, Professor Xavier's fingers in his hair to encourage him...

At the front of the seminar room, Professor Xavier coughs and shakes his head. He drinks from his water bottle, mobile flesh of his throat flexing as he swallows, before continuing. Maybe he would swallow like that, watching Erik take him all the way in, maybe he'd breathe out hard, a sigh that would gust across the top of Erik's head, maybe he'd swallow around a choked-off  _good boy_ when Erik tongued him exactly right.

Wait, lecture. Erik manages to catch the end of it, almost too relieved that Professor Xavier wears a telepathy limiter (and so has not overheard, or overseen, or whatever) to catch the homework--and, for that matter, almost too relieved to remember to sit down until he could walk without it being completely indecent.

A few students try to monopolize Professor Xavier's time after class, but he escapes from them--and Erik--with surprising ease. Erik, on edge and a bit stunned at himself for missing fifteen minutes of lecture because of fantasy blowjobs, doesn't have the chance to follow him.

So it's a bit surprising when, thirty minutes later, his phone pings with a new email message.

> _Erik,_
> 
> _Could you please see me at any point convenient this afternoon about today's class? I'll be in my office until five._
> 
> _Charles_

Maybe it's Erik's authority kink, but he can't quite square  _Charles_ with  _Professor Xavier_. At least, when his daydreams have him being fucked over a lab bench or tied up so he can have terrible things done to him in his shared office space, it's always  _yes, sir, Professor_ or  _please fuck me, Professor_ that he says.

And maybe it's a sign of how fucked-up Erik is over his fucking bioinformatics professor, or his bioinformatics professor fucking him, that he has to think to appreciate the full import of the email.

"Fuck," he says, when he does.

He's almost done with his coursework. He'll be working on his qualifying exams and thesis proposal next fall. He has an internship with Raytheon for the summer. He's supposed to be a goddamn  _professional_ , not staring at his instructor with fuck only knows what expression on his face. Professor Xavier is going to be one of the professors writing his final review, and Erik cringes, imagining him typing  _Too busy objectifying professor in class to assimilate new information_.

Well, better get it over with. It's too late to drop, but maybe if Erik apologizes and acts every inch the cool, reserved, doctoral student he is, it'll go okay.

Professor Xavier's TA, a nervous first-year whose name Erik can't be bothered to remember, is perpetually hanging about unless he has lab or Erik is able to scare him away. The same can be said for the clutch of undergrads usually stationed outside Professor Xavier's office, clutching their Foundations in Evolutionary Biology textbooks and ratty spiral-bound notebooks.

None of them are in evidence today, not even the TA, although he does have to toss an icy glare at a student who looks like he might be planning on loitering in the hallway. Erik breathes a sigh of relief at having no witnesses to his humiliation and, steeling himself, knocks on the door.

The very British "Do come in" replies nearly before there's anything to reply to. Erik opens the door.

"Ah, Erik." Professor Xavier smiles up at him. "Thank you so much for coming. If you could...?"

Erik sits automatically. Already every fiber of his wretchedly hormonal being has fixed itself on Professor Xavier, as if he's somehow become magnetic, or iron, and all of Erik, from his blood to his powers to  _everything_ , turns to him as if to turn to true north. Professor Xavier has taken off his cardigan to leave him in only rolled-up shirtsleeves, his collar unbuttoned down to the hollow between his clavicles. Resolutely, Erik keeps his eyes from straying down there.

"I got your message," Erik says unnecessarily. He positions his computer bag strategically on his lap, which brings a smile to Professor Xavier's face.

"Yes, I rather thought you did. Tea?" When Erik declines, Professor Xavier stands to make himself a cup, bending to retrieve a jug of filtered water and to give Erik a  very, very nice view of his ass. The kettle begins to heat and click away, eating into the silence that Professor Xavier seems to be content with. At last, the kettle announces it's finished and Professor Xavier fixes a cup. The milk splashes loudly. Erik swallows.

"Now," Professor Xavier says. He quirks a brow and smiles into the lip of his cup, "I wanted to talk to you about class today."

"Yes," Erik says, and wonders if he should just stammer out an apology and get it over with.

Professor Xavier sets his mug on a small table and stands again, pacing around his desk to stand over Erik, leaning back to brace his weight against the desktop. Objectively, Professor Xavier is rather shorter than Erik, but this close, with Erik sitting and looking up, Professor Xavier's presence swamps him, reduces him. Erik wants to bow his head and look away, but can't.

"It isn't fair to the other students who are in class trying to learn for you to distract your professor's attention like that," Professor Xavier says, quiet but firm.

"I..." Erik stares. _  
_

"Really, Erik," murmurs Professor Xavier, "you daydream about me like  _that_ , fucking your face while you moan and beg me for more like the shameless little slut you are, plead with me to come down your throat, and I'm supposed to pretend to ignore it and continue talking about reducing statistical noise in genomic analysis programs? Your classmates came to learn about recent developments in bioinformatics, not watch their professor try not to have an erection for thirty minutes."

"Your..." Erik's still staring; he can't do anything else, trapped by blue eyes and Professor Xavier's mouth saying those words, and by a sudden, terrible realization. "You have a  _limiter_ , you aren't supposed to be able..."  _To read minds, to see what people are thinking._

"Oh, this," Professor Xavier rolls his eyes and detaches the small device from his temple. "It's really just for show; not much good against me I'm afraid." He tosses it in the trash can without looking away from Erik.  _Now, Erik, where were we? You were incredibly discourteous today_.

"Yes, Professor Xavier," Erik says past a throat that's suddenly closed off and a mouth that's gone dry. His entire body clamors at him, excited and embarrassed and hot for it.

_So anxious_ , Professor Xavier thinks.  _To make amends, perhaps?_ He shifts, spreading his legs and Erik, helpless, aching, trembling, looks and sees the outline of Professor Xavier's cock pressed against the tidy, prim-ironed lines of his khakis.

_I won't require that you apologize to your classmates_ , Professor Xavier tells him. A hand beckons, square-fingered and capable, the same hand Erik has watched typing out code and imagined taking him apart.

_But come here and make it up to me, the way you imagined today._

Erik kneels between those outspread thighs and, with trembling fingers of his own, reaches for Professor Xavier's belt.

_Such a good boy_ , Professor Xavier murmurs in Erik's head, fingers already playing through Erik's hair. "Such a good student."

"Yes, sir," Erik murmurs, and leans in.

* * *

Professor Xavier sends Erik off with the taste of come and salt still thick in his mouth, but not before Erik has him licked clean and tucked away. Erik manages it through a haze of throbbing want and impatience, his fingers unsteady with the zipper and his powers not much more use.

"That's all," Professor Xavier says, and nods at the abandoned computer bag by Erik's chair.

Flushing, Erik picks it up, acutely aware of Professor Xavier's bright blue eyes on him, raking over him shamelessly, proprietarily. For a moment rebellion rises up, because fuck this, he didn't just get on his knees to be blown off like he's nothing. He turns around, intending to make an issue of it, but before he can speak, Professor Xavier gestures him close.

For a moment Erik thinks he'll get a kiss, but Professor Xavier only grins, a diabolical eyebrow quirking as he cups Erik's erection through his jeans, pressing down barely on the sweet side of too painful. 

"If I give you everything you want now," Professor Xavier murmurs as Erik shudders and whimpers, "you won't want to come back."

He dismisses Erik then, delicious pressure falling away as he slides past Erik to resume is place behind his desk. Erik hates him acutely, unrumpled beyond the usual professorial dishevelment while he's left Erik swollen-mouthed and unable to trust his voice. He's pretty sure if he tried to talk it would come out as a fucked-out croak. He imagines bruises on his throat, finger marks on the side of his face where Professor Xavier had held him.

"If you want to torture yourself, go right ahead," Professor Xavier says mildly, "but I do have a meeting with an advisee in five minutes."

Erik leaves, ducking his face into the high collar of his coat but feeling marked and flagrant anyway.

* * *

His willpower lasts all week, desire buried under a ton of lab work for his supervisor and his own research. Professor Xavier runs like a subtext, though, memories of that afternoon arresting Erik in odd moments so his concentration derails and he stares into a space where his knees remember the thin carpet under them and when he swallows he swallows around a thick, heavy weight choking off his air.

In the next week's seminar Professor Xavier takes no notice of him, even when Erik--knowing that the telepathy limiter is nothing more than decorative--thinks as viciously as he can about Professor Xavier fucking Erik in the grad assistants' office, just pushing Erik over a desk and taking him and then pulling out and coming all over Erik's ass so Erik wears his come around all day.

"While you may not think it, stochastic analysis has proven invaluable in mapping all manner of gene expression," Professor Xavier says as he turns off the projector. A few of the students stir preparatory to packing up "For the next couple of weeks, we will be discussing proteomics, specifically protein expressions in X-gene carriers. That's all."

Erik can't bring himself to lurk while Professor Xavier fields questions from those students who are clearly just trying to impress their ways into his bed. With a snarl, he stalks off, shutting the door on a high-pitched giggle and Professor Xavier's low, warm reply.

Late on a Thursday afternoon the GA offices are abandoned, everyone off to drink or collapse into bed. Erik sets up his laptop and takes his frustrations out on the first draft of results for his supervisor.

He doesn't pay much attention to the door opening and shutting, although he does notice the bolt sliding home into the lock.

"Don't," Professor Xavier's voice says. Erik freezes. "Close your eyes."

Erik keeps his eyes slit open, although he can't see more of Professor xavier than a blur in the periphery of his vision. 

"Just because I didn't react," Professor Xavier says idly, "doesn't mean that I didn't hear you thinking about how desperately you needed my cock up your ass. And," Erik jumps as a hand descends on his backside, cracking smartly across it, "I said close your eyes."

Erik's eyes snap shut. In the darkness everything is amplified, the electric pulse of his laptop, the hot, throbbing presence of iron and trace metals and steel watch that is Professor Xavier.

"Because you're such a good boy," the words drip with sarcasm, "I'll give you what's been on your mind all this week. It makes me so happy to know you've thought of me every time you've gotten off... And, oh, when you had four fingers stuffed up that lovely arse of yours? Really, Erik, you're shameless."

A hand between his shoulder blades pushes him down so he's stretched awkwardly across his desk. Erik scrabbles to shove his laptop out of the way and Professor Xavier laughs.

He doesn't get much more than Professor Xavier peeling his jeans and boxers down, and a telepathic command not to touch himself. "I'll take care of you," Professor Xavier promises, and it would almost sound sweet if it weren't for the cold, slick fingers pushing into him. Erik stiffens, fingers clawing at the laminate of the desktop. His ability sinks into the metal pulls on the drawers and the legs, the only things to hold on to.

"It feels like you got up to something this morning," says Professor Xavier. The words are mischievous, boyish, as young as Professor Xavier is supposed to be. "Do you have a dildo at home you pretend is me? Did you play with yourself, imagining all the ways I could torture you? Or," the fingers hook cruelly and Erik moans, hips stuttering into and away from them as Professor Xavier growls, "do you have someone else you give yourself to like this?"

"No," Erik whispers. He wants to open his eyes, turn his head so he can see if Professor Xavier thinks that's the truth or not, but he doesn't dare.

"Only me," Professor Xavier murmurs with satisfaction. A third finger slides in as he plays with Erik's ass, a palm running up and down the curve of it, pushing Erik's shirt higher on his back. A warm mouth lands on his spine, teeth scoring the skin and bone and Professor Xavier rocks against him, pushing him a little further up the desk. "Such an abstemious cockslut, aren't you? No wonder you came to me, begging for it."

"Please." He has one cheek plastered to his desk, the skin and laminate slick with sweat and the humiliated tears he can't keep back. He's burning up, he hurts with it, he's full with three of Professor Xavier's fingers in him and the thumb of his other hand pulling his cheeks apart. His next words come out fragmented. "Please, sir, please fuck me."

"Since you asked so nicely." Professor Xavier's zipper sliding down is a cold shiver across the surface of Erik's abilities and he braces himself, waiting in the darkness and everything under his skin on fire.

Professor Xavier holds him open, an admiring hum and _look how open you are for me_ echoing in Erik's head. Only me, Professor Xavier thinks and god what is he waiting for, Erik whines high in his throat, tilting his hips, displaying himself, thinking _do you want an engraved invitation?_ , which earns him a sharp, real smack across bare skin.

"Such cheek," Professor Xavier says. He pinches reddening flesh sternly and Erik yelps. As the pain fades, the new ache of being filled replaces it, Professor Xavier's thick cockhead pushing into Erik's hole.

He remembers it, of course, the weight and thickness of it, the sensitive head that Erik had suckled until it was flushed and spit-shiny. And he's imagined it, how he would feel as Professor Xavier fucked him with it, sliding in inch by inch--or, as Erik cries out, all at once in one long, punishing thrust.

Behind him, Professor Xavier sighs, a heavy, satisfied sound. "You do take it so well," he says. "If you could only see yourself..."

And then Erik _does_ , a flicker of disorientation as he sees what he knows is his own back, flushed pink and damp with sweat, a handprint and a vicious little red mark on his ass, and Professor Xavier buried deep up in his hole, sliding back a little so Erik can _see_.

"God," Erik gasps. "Please, sir, I can't--"

"Poor creature." The image dissolves in a red haze as Professor Xavier begins to thrust. "You've been wanting this for so long. It was cruel to make you wait." He doesn't sound particularly bothered by that. Erik rides along with the words; they flow under him like waves, tugging him along with Professor Xavier moving fierce and heavy inside him. "Do you think you can come without being touched? I bet you can."

He probably can; this moment is all he's been able to think of for a week. Erik writhes and moans with embarrassment, and imagines one of his colleagues walking in, or a professor, or Professor Xavier's stupid, innocent little TA. They'd see him, jeans around his knees, ass in the air with tears and probably snot and saliva smeared across his face and hear him moaning "Just like the slut you are," Professor Xavier says, the words more fragmented than before, "giving it up so easy."

Erik comes hard at the picture, at the drag of Professor Xavier's cock over his prostate. His dick jerks, painting his shirt and the desktop with come and Erik can see it, streaked across the fake grain of the wood. He fumbles for balance, to keep himself up even as his muscles give out and he wants to collapse and let Professor Xavier use him until he finishes, or maybe keep fucking him forever as time stretches out on the high of his orgasm.

"That wasn't in the plan," he thinks Professor Xavier says, but everything's hazy and unreal, and before he knows it Professor Xavier's pulling out and pulling away, the cold office air sudden on Erik's burning skin. He whimpers as pleasure fades and the pain of a rough fucking seeps in.

_Stay still_ , Professor Xavier orders. Erik complies, incapable of doing much more than wonder how he missed Professor Xavier finishing until, _oh_ , a hand shapes itself to his hip and he hears the slap-slap sound of flesh being roughly stroked and Professor Xavier grunting, a heavy swallow Erik remembers from last week, and then thick, hot spurts of come paint Erik's back, his spine, the throbbing cheeks of his ass, his hole.

"So good," Professor Xavier breathes. "Such a good boy for me. You'll wear that, of course, like you promised."

Last week he had walked around with the taste of Professor Xavier in his mouth. This week he'll walk around with his come and his scent plastered all over him. Erik shivers.

"You can open your eyes now."

The world swims back into something like focus, although Erik's eyelids don't seem to want to cooperate. He feels drugged, content with afterglow but also strangely altered, as if his world has shifted a few degrees away from reality. The office he's had for the past two years doesn't seem like his office. It smells like recycled air and sex. His papers have all scattered aronund the floor. His computer... he frowns. His computer's somehow turned itself off.

"You should probably straighten yourself up before someone comes by," Professor Xavier advises. Erik pushes himself up, wincing when he realizes he's got come all over his palm now, in addition to the desk and his shirt.

Professor Xavier's taken care of himself, tucked away neatly and thoroughly presentable again. Aside from the high color in his cheeks, the exhilarated glitter of his blue eyes, he looks as if he's come straight from the labs. His gaze flickers down Erik's body, to where his cock is hanging out of his boxers and his jeans are still half-mast at his thighs.

"Very impressive," Professor Xavier says, "but as I said, you should straighten yourself up."

He watches as Erik tugs up boxers and jeans, licking his lips as fabric covers the come he's left behind. Erik shivers. He's going to feel awful and clammy and itchy soon, but he has Professor Xavier all over him now, his scent sunk into him, the fading throb on his ass cheek from the spanking and the pinch.

And, Erik realizes when he reaches out to his computer again, he has a broken laptop. Dazed with shock, he realizes that his powers must have slipped--he hasn't lost control since he was a teenager--and he's somehow wiped the drive.

"My fucking computer!" The screen remains stubbornly blank, aside from a smear of come from Erik's unwashed hands drying at the corner.

"Oh, poor love," says Professor Xavier, sounding thoroughly unrepentant. He looks it too, flushed and happy, when Erik swings around to glare at him. "I do hope you've got your data backed up."

"I should make you buy me a new one," Erik growls.

"Or I could pay you," Professor Xavier murmurs silkily. He straightens his cuffs. "I could pay you, like the whore you are."

Erik stiffens. A rush of desire, hot and sick, curls down his spine and pools between his legs. He's acutely aware of the professor's come drying on his ass and the lube between his cheeks and and a cut on his lip.

"Because that's what you are, isn't it?" Professor Xavier asks. He runs his thumb over Erik's lip, pressing against the cut so Erik hisses. Thoughtfully Professor Xavier licks the blood off the pad. "Such a hungry little slut. Do you want to work for it?"

"I..." He has sufficient funds for a new laptop so long as he's careful; his research fellowship covers all equipment. He doesn't need Professor Xavier's money.

"No blowjob, no matter how good, is going to cover a new Macbook," Erik says.

Professor Xavier laughs, low and delighted. "Oh, of course. Delightful as yours are, you lovely cocksucker." He grasps Erik by the wrist, not a hesitant or beseeching gesture; he has a powerful grip, pressing assertively down into bone and tendon. "Then perhaps you should come home with me."

Erik's world teeters, poised on the edge of something. Erik pushes it the rest of the way over.

"How much?"

"Oh, pet, you are..." Professor Xavier drops Erik's hand. Those blue, blue eyes of his look right down into Erik, down into the places hidden from everyone else. "Does it really matter how much I offer? We both know you'll be there either way, you want it that badly."

It's true. Erik's already aching for it, for something huge and nameless that has no shape except that of shadows and pain and ownership. It's the fear more than anything that spurs him on. It always is, the desire to overcome it.

"And," Professor Xavier continues, "as adorable as it is, you trying to negotiate, I have to get to a faculty meeting. So be a good boy and wait in the engineering library for me, and I'll come to collect you when I'm done."

He doesn't wait for Erik's agreement--they both know it's pointless--before he leaves, a cloud of satisfaction trailing behind him. Erik stares, thinking distantly that the library is crowded on Thursdays, and he'll be surrounded by his colleagues, smelling of sex and sticky with it, and coming apart under the skin with it, until Professor Xavier comes and saves him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He waits for five seconds. Then takes a deep breath. Lets it out in the slow, rasping sigh that he knows gets Erik hot.
> 
> "My darling - you know you must look me in the eye, always, when I tell you to do so. And now I have something else to tell you, you insolent, misbehaving _slut_. What would your colleagues say, if they knew that I was asking you - right now .... Did you pack the vibrator I so nicely gave you to practice with?"

The time difference is just enough to be irritating: Charles at his conference in Miami, and the programmers and engineers on Pacific time. The afternoon session holds nothing of interest, and so here he is, stuck in a drab business office just after lunch on Wednesday, supposedly talking about protein dynamics but really listening to Dr. Someone-or-other ramble about MATLAB. His flight back isn't until Friday. Erik's flight back delivers him on Saturday, at twelve forty-eight in the afternoon.

... He keeps coming back to Erik.

Charles lets the programmer natter on, and broods. Is it a weakness, to be thinking of how he could have Erik kneel in front of him, to be fed his lunch, piece by piece? How Erik would look stretched out on Miami beach sand, oiled and glistening in the sun?

That's a thought: Erik returning from his interview will be more prickly than usual - anxious to hear back from little academic nobodies. Charles remembers the stress of waiting to hear back for fellowships, wanting to climb out of his skin from the need to just _know_. Perhaps his sweet boy would relish being carried off to Grand Cayman for a weekend, as a distraction.

 _Perhaps_ , nothing. He would enjoy himself. Charles is very good at persuading Erik to do just that - especially after the fact, once Erik realizes he can't get enough of what Charles gives him.

He thinks about his beach house for a while. Private, behind a wall of palm trees. An infinity pool--ridiculous, really--for Erik to stretch out beside, or slip into. Charles could watch from the shade, keep Erik naked just to see that pale golden skin under the sunlight. And then afterward, with Erik sunwarmed and lazy...

Handcuffs would have to go in checked baggage -

"And this is Erik," one of the researchers says. "But I think—Erik, you're in one of Charles's classes, aren't you?"

Every cell in Charles' body snaps awake at the name.

The Berkeley group had said something about one of their prospective lab assistants sitting in on the conference call. And there he is, arranging himself neatly at the table. Nicely suited and tied after coming from a summer research interview ...

Erik gives him a smug little smile. The _minx_.

"That's right," Charles says calmly. "Mr. Lehnsherr is taking my Bioinformatics seminar this term."

"Yes, of course." The researcher scrambles to match Charles' formality. "Mr. Lehnsherr would be a great asset to our lab. You know he did his undergrad with Dr. Tandir, who has since signed on to our project."

Charles feigns no interest. "How nice. But I do hope your great... asset ... has finished his problem set for next week."

The researcher laughs, too loudly for something so obviously a jab and not a joke. Erik is well beyond problem sets. But the other professors join in - they'd hate to lose his goodwill, Charles knows.

And there it is ... just what he wanted. Erik's expression shading from smugness to uncertainty. His grey eyes darken as he feels the barb go in, the reminder of who still controls him even from across a continent.

It suits him.

But - Charles shakes his head at himself - not in a professional context, of course. So he makes his voice kind.

"Truth be told, every hour he's your assistant is an hour he's not mine, gentlemen - and lady." He nods at Dr. Ferrara; smiles at Erik. And - _god_. Erik blushes, high on his cheekbones, and darts his eyes away. It's sweet, almost. Virginal. Charles almost laughs. Erik's long since had the last vestiges of _that_ taken care of.

"It's nice to see you, Mr. Lehnsherr. Now. Dr. Penfield, could you continue?" He's certain it was Penfield who'd been doing the talking before, even if he's no clue what the man was saying. "I'm sure Mr. Lehnsherr can catch up."

The meeting continues to the pace of Penfield's droning voice.

Maddeningly, after that last, searing look, Erik does not move his eyes from the conference table. It's as though he forgets whom his eyes should be on - _always_. False modesty is not attractive, especially on him, not now. Playing innocent when they're in Charles's bedroom, when Charles has got him hot and begging for it is one thing; this is another.

That's it. Charles eases his cell phone out of his pocket. He tabs quickly to the ringer options and chooses a new one, presses it a few times so the phone chimes stridently.

Ten seconds, and: "Excuse me - I'm so terribly sorry, but I must take this call."

"Right," one of his colleagues says, "that will give us a few moments to discuss the backup protocols." The engineers start chattering amongst themselves, a meaningless backwash of sound.

Charles murmurs in agreement - but he's already pressed Erik's number on speed-dial, and brought the phone to his ear. And if Erik has been the consummate professional, he'll have turned his own phone to vibrate, after silencing it for his interviews.

... Vibrate. That's a thought. He's had Erik tied up in his bed before, a thick metal toy happily vibrating in his ass while Erik begged and Charles relaxed on a nearby chair and watched him suffer. It's something Charles would very much like to have again.

Charles covers his mouth with one hand - it would not do for the group in its entirety to see his grin. For Erik's shoulders have stiffened, and Charles _sees_ the fight in Erik's body as Erik struggles not to respond past a twitch of his hand toward his pocket. None of the other scientists break off from their discussion, which must mean either Erik has the phone set to silent but can sense the electronics buzzing away as they receive the signal, or he has the thing on vibrate after all, and isn't that a delicious thought?

 _Leave a message_. Which is all Erik has for his voicemail, the little Neanderthal.

This far away, there's no gauging consent telepathically. "Erik, this is Charles speaking." There's such a fine line between command and respecting Erik's right to decline; he keeps his voice neutral. "Be warned: I have a very particular message for you."

He waits for five seconds. Then takes a deep breath. Lets it out in the slow, rasping sigh that he knows gets Erik hot.

"My darling - you know you must look me in the eye, always, when I tell you to do so. And now I have something else to tell you, you insolent, misbehaving _slut_. What would your colleagues say, if they knew that I was asking you - right now .... Did you pack the vibrator I so nicely gave you to practice with?"

Charles lets the question sit, before lowering his voice to continue. "Because if you didn't, you're going to go out and buy another at the end of your day - one at least a half inch greater in diameter than the one I gave you. And you're going to be in your room, on Skype with full video, when I call you tonight, at ..."

Charles takes his hand from his mouth. Makes a show of shaking his watch loose from his sleeve. "Nine o'clock sharp, your time. Or I shall have to punish you. You cock-hungry little whore - I'm going to make you beg for me to _ream_ you, _Mr. Lehnsherr_ , and you're going to tell me how much you love it," he hisses his way to the end - less controlled than he'd like to be - as he flicks his phone off with a thumb.

Right. Back to business. "Shall we?" Charles says to the group, and they fall over themselves to continue.

Erik is being very professional. He has not left to check his voicemail; he has not even looked to see the origin of the call. Surely he must guess the identity of his caller - his color would not be so high, otherwise. He wouldn't fidget like a precious little schoolgirl, otherwise.

Charles only wishes he could see the expression on Erik's face ... when he takes the message, and realizes what Charles had said in front of all his colleagues ...

In front of them .... Now that's a thought, a new level to the game they're playing, how far Erik might let him push in public, finding ways to show the world--not that it would understand--how Erik belongs to him, bends so sweetly for him, so eager to be owned and cared for. But surely logistically impossible. Charles dismisses it with regret, and concentrates.

* * *

Erik says his goodbyes to the Berkeley team and promises to see them at the reception later this afternoon. Of course, there'll be hundreds of other grad students and faculty there, all eager to drink away a day of meetings and poster sessions; Erik's fairly sure he can escape quickly or just not go at all and not be missed.

Although a drink might not be out of order. Erik ducks into a small, silent room, sliding papers into his briefcase as he floats his phone out of his pocket. At some point the room had played host to a coffee hour, but aside from the table and the now-cold coffee carafe, he's the only thing in it. Which is good; Erik can't think of _that_ look on Professor Xavier's face without shivering.

He plucks the phone from midair.

The missed call notification on his lockscreen doesn't surprise him, but his heart beats hard against his ribcage anyway. He hits _play_ , breath shallow and attenuated, listens as that bone-deep familiar voice speaks.

 _Erik, this is Charles speaking_.

Even neutral as it is, that voice makes Erik's knees want to buckle. Even though Charles is far away, three thousand miles' worth of distance, that voice speaks from directly behind Erik's shoulder, breathing soft commands into his ear.

"My darling - you know you must look me in the eye, always, when I tell you to do so." And Erik _does_ , when he's on his knees. "And now I have something else to tell you, you insolent, misbehaving _slut_." Erik's grip tightens around his phone as Charles's voice silkily continues, "What would your colleagues say, if they knew that I was asking you - right now .... Did you pack the vibrator I so nicely gave you to practice with?"

He had blushed violently when he'd gone through security with it. Charles would have laughed at him, _surely, dearest, you can't be shy now, not after everything I've done to you_.

A burst of laughter from the outside hallway makes his shoulders stiffen. People are so close; any one of them could stroll to the door, toss a glance his way, and see him holding the phone as though it's made of lead and gravity has doubled its pull.

"You're going to be in your room, on Skype with full video, when I call you tonight, at … nine o'clock sharp, your time."

 _Tonight_.

" - I'm going to make you beg for me to _ream_ you, _Mr. Lehnsherr_ , and you're going to tell me how much you love it."

Erik feels like he's been punched. And it feels like his ears are burning off, because that rasp in Charles' voice at the end - _shit_ , it got him hard. He yanks the briefcase from the table to shield his front, in case anyone walks in and sees him.

" _To save this message_ ," his phone chirps, " _press ‘five'. To delete this message, press ‘seven'. To listen to your old messages -_ "

It takes him two tries. _You save them all, Erik. Who knows? I might want to have a record of your progress some day._

He tries to calm down, taking deep breaths, running through his commitments for the evening. This meeting with the Berkeley group, but he also has to flatter recruiters, smile at stupid people, dodge the grad student scramble for the food -

A chocolate-smeared doily on a plastic platter catches his eye, a relic of the earlier meeting. Now there's only him, and he's only thinking about how to keep lube from smearing his best pair of trousers. He'll have to have them back on - Charles will want him to strip.

Erik presses one hand to his mouth. "You're really doing this," he mumbles. At a conference; at - where people could give him a job.

 _You cock-hungry little whore_. Charles had to have said that right into the phone. on camera, while the Berkeley team had been - discussing - he doesn't remember.

Heat creeps up Erik's neck. His tie feels too tight. He's really doing this.

 _And why is that?_ Charles always asks him, smiling down while pulling slowly at his thick cock. Sometimes he'll tap Erik's mouth with the head; other times he keeps it just out of reach, free hand resting all his own weight on Erik's shoulder. But smiling down into Erik's eyes, because that's the rule: _Look me in the eye. Always. Now tell me: why do you do this, Erik?_

"I do this, because I'm - " he squeezes his eyes shut, here while he's alone, "because I'm your whore, Professor."

 _Good boy. Open up._ The last time, Charles had pulled Erik onto his cock, strong hand fisted in his hair, and Erik had choked. _That's lovely. Now_ \- and he had shaken Erik where he held him, _say it again_.

He had tried. But it had only been a gurgle, for obvious reasons, and Charles had sighed and pulled out, dragging his cock over Erik's face. _So inarticulate. Oh, but what now? So hungry for my cock, pet? Do you know what you look like?_

And Charles had placed the image in Erik's mind, delicately, like setting a china cup onto its saucer. Erik's eyes, teary; his mouth smeared with spit and precome; and on his face, nothing but desperation.

Charles might as well be here right now. Closing his eyes only sharpens the image, saturates it. Fuck, Charles would laugh if he knew Erik was getting hard right in the middle of a conference. He'd laugh, then he'd drag Erik out to meet people, _you're going to be polite and interested; consider this an exercise in professionalization_.

Small mercies, Charles not being here. Erik counts his breaths as he slides his phone back into his pocket and collects his bag, tries to collect himself. Outside the laughter spikes and dies away, a tide of watches, jewelry, a pacemaker, metal fountain pens heading to new sessions and meetings. Erik waits in the dark with the abandoned coffee pot.

When it's safe, he returns to his hotel room, dodging close calls with acquaintances and someone from Berkeley. His room is quiet, filled up only with himself and his thoughts -- he'd been more than willing to pay for a single, and not just because his advisor wants to watch him masturbate over a webcam. Erik washes his face, tries not to look at himself or, when he grabs it from his shaving kit, the bottle of lube.

 _Eight hours_ the clock says, glowing serenely at him from the bedside table. Erik sets his laptop up on the bed, half-thinks Charles is inside it, waiting; he'll be watching when Erik opens it tonight. Sighing, Erik sits down next to it, running his fingers over the metal. The laptop sleeps, unconcerned.

It's the laptop Charles had bought for him -- no, that Charles had bought to _pay_ him for a weekend of service. It's a toy, a tool, a reminder, tying Erik to Charles no matter the distance between them.

 _I should change_ , he thinks. He'll leave the reception early, get back here at eight to get ready. He ignores the desire to get ready _now_ , to work himself open and slick himself up, to be the whore Charles says he really is. In his head, Charles laughs his warm, rich laugh. _Mustn't ruin your trousers, dear boy. Not yet._

Erik grips the bedside table tight, sinks his power into the stainless steel of the lamp stand and the twisting networks of wire in the walls to steady himself until he can get himself under control. Just a few more hours.

* * *

This is how, at the end of what had to have been a long day, Erik ends up in front of his laptop, stripping the way Charles tells him: positioning himself so Charles can see his throat as he undoes his collar, careful to keep his hands visible as he works his fingers into the knot of the tie and one, two, three tugs it loose.

It's quite delightful watching Erik, after he's shrugged out of his jacket and shirt, after he's got the vibrator in him and buzzing away, fumble to bind his own wrists with his tie, having to use his mouth to tug the fabric tight while he tries to deal with the distraction of that vibrator up his ass.

"Concentration," Charles says as he jacks himself slowly. "You have such admirable focus, Erik. It's one of the things I love most about you. Dial it up a notch, won't you, love?"

Magnanimously, he lets Erik curse and growl at him and pretend he doesn't love this every bit as much as Charles does.

And there he stays: hands tied, lips parted as he stares at his laptop, breath shallow and rapid as he rocks his hips – just the way Charles likes it.

It's always a good sign: Erik falling silent. It means he's let himself go just enough to make him start to writhe rather than struggle; pant and moan rather than snarl. The risk is that he falls too far, of course; with two time zones separating them, Charles wouldn't want his darling boy wrecked without him there to kiss it better.

Deliberately, he brings his hand back up to his mouth; licks it; spits. Then takes hold of his cock again, twisting. Erik's eyes are glassy. Charles hears him whimper.

"Very nice – but a little louder, darling."

Erik tries. Charles can tell he's trying. "There's static," he says. "Louder."

Erik tries some more.

"Poor thing." He lets the smile Erik loves so curl round the edges of his mouth. Vulpine, he's always thought – though Erik has the better teeth for it. "Can't make too much noise, lest someone knock on your door – even though I want you to be loud. What a pity. How are you going to make it up to me?"

And – _that_ –

Charles stares. That is delicious.

Erik has thrown his head back – Charles can see the skin left pale from his shirt. Muscles in his chest flex as he casts his shoulders back, too. Everything else about him is straining forward. Hands, hips, cock ...

Three more days. God damn it, he will be kissing Erik hello at the airport at in approximately seventy hours … and biting a bruise into his neck in approximately sixty-nine hours fifty-eight minutes.

Sixty-nine. There's a thought.

The thought of his cock down Erik's throat nearly brings him off. He hangs on, biting his lip for the pain and distraction, focuses again on the length of Erik's throat bared so perfectly, working desperately around breaths and curses and, _oh_ , a heartfelt moan that Charles feels under his skin.

"Such a good boy," he murmurs, even though Erik might be beyond hearing. He strokes himself once more, relishing the display stretched across the screen, Erik rocking back and forth between friction he can't get and the thick, throbbing pressure of the vibrator up his ass.

"Can you come from that?" Charles asks him. Erik moans again. "Use your words, my pet, and don't look away."

"Yes," Erik gasps. His eyes are grey haze, fixed with a kind of vacant desperation on his face. "But please, please—"

"After I come," Charles says with another smile. He allows himself one small thrust up into his own fist. "It's so lovely looking at you shivering the way you are."

He pauses to look for just one moment more. It's remarkable, Erik's beauty. Charles remembers making polite conversation with different members of the university council at the unveiling of the sculpture gallery - all of them, different splotches on a palette of boredom … and there had been a copy of some statue of a discus thrower, and there, in his mind's eye - instantly - had been Erik.

Marble can't shiver, whatever one might say about Bernini. And here is Erik: sweat gleaming on the planes of his chest, on his abdomen – what Charles can see of his abdomen, at least, around Erik's forearms … around his immense and straining cock. But which limb is trembling most? Right arm - left arm - cock .... If Charles were there, he'd have to bring his face near the superlative display and wait for Erik to start begging in earnest.

"Gorgeous," Charles whispers.

Erik pitches his head forward. "Hnh?"

"Quiet. Eyes, Erik."

"I – "

His precious pet cannot seem to speak. _Lovely_. "Eyes open, and on me. On," Charles says, "my cock."

And there's another darling aspect to their – association. Charles smirks. After all he's done to wreck Erik, his boy can still blush.

"Because it's your favorite thing, isn't it, my dear?" He curls his hand round his cock, one finger at a time. "You love it, don't you? It's the best thing that's ever happened to you, isn't it?"

And that made him angry. Erik's eyes flash and his lips part –

So Charles leans forward. Bless. Erik's eyes almost cross.

"Look at my cock, dearest. Watch my hand. Think of all the ways," and Charles sets up a steady rhythm, "that I am going to _ruin_ you when you get home."

"Oh," Erik gasps, and that's quite enough of that.

"Lean forward."

Charles doesn't let up; just watches as Erik obeys, that lovely, thin-lipped mouth gone slack and wanting. Were he on the bed in front of him, Charles would grab him by the hair and fuck his face. He settles for a distant second.

"Face on the duvet."

Erik hesitates.

" _Now_. To the side." That had been unexpected. Travel, perhaps, making his pet try the slack on the leash. Charles narrows his eyes. "I want you feeling that lamentable thread count on your face, and I want your eyes on my cock. Ass up."

Now … _now_ , Erik obeys.

"Turn up the vibrator," Charles says, softly. "Don't come."

He lets the sounds carry them for the next few moments. The piercing buzz, the slap of his hand on his cock. Erik's face has gone a dark pink. If the resolution were better, Charles is sure he would see the duvet rippling in front of his mouth with every breath.

"You prepped yourself for me before," Charles says. Erik's gaze is fixed on Charles's cock, empty and hungry. "You knew I wanted to see you slide that thick vibrator into your ass, not hesitating, just _taking_ it like the greedy whore you are." Erik shudders; the metal and humming parts of the toy, Charles's voice, Erik's knowledge of what he is, must be a cacophony right now. Charles wishes he could hear it. "Too bad I didn't make you wear a plug to your interviews."

Oh, another thought. Erik inspires such creativity.

"If I were there, darling," Charles says, gripping himself tightly, Erik's eyes widening, mouth open, "I'd finish all over your pretty hair. What do you think of that? How would you feel if I made you go to your next interview with my come dried on the back of your neck?"

Maybe Erik whimpers; Charles isn't sure. He can't be fussed to pay that much attention to detail, not when he's focused his entire mind on the image of his own filthy little cock slave, face pressed to the tatty hotel bed, back arched, gasping for it – begging for it –

Orgasms never catch him by surprise. So Charles gives his cock one final pull – two – and lets his groan rattle in his chest as he comes into his free hand.

It's wonderful to flick his eyes open and see Erik pressing the side of his face deeper into the duvet, shoving where he surely wants to dive forward and grind into the bed until he comes, writhing and wriggling like a fish on a hook.

The darling. Charles lets him do that for a while.

Just long enough to let him catch his breath, and wipe his hand on a damp washcloth. He places the cloth back on the bedside table. Picks up a glass of water. Takes a sip, and smiles into the camera.

"Good boy."

And the strangled sound Erik makes gives Charles cause to bless all recording devices. This video, he will save.

"Now." He takes another sip of water. "Now, now, my filthy darling: what about you?"

"I – I," Erik's fingers open and close, tangle together, unlace, grasp. They're praying hands, with their long graceful fingers. Where the tie is tight around his wrists there is sweat darkening the edges of the silk.

Charles waits and listens. The muted hum of the vibrator underscores the high, whistling melody of Erik's breathing and the creak of the bed under him. The poor boy has to be getting sore, Charles reflects, although you wouldn't know it to look at him, that lovely dark blush spreading down his chest and his cock still magnificently hard, flat to Erik's flat belly. If he were there, Charles would place his hand against the trembling plane of it, to feel all that desperate and harnessed power and know that it was his.

"Are you still with me, dearest?" he asks. Erik's eyes are grey and glassy, like the sea on a hazy day. Charles smiles, sardonic at his own poetry; Erik's own mouth, swollen where he's tried to bite himself into silence, falls open. "You're still watching me, love? Such a good boy."

"Yessir," Erik says. His hips arch and flex, the way they do when he's trying to get Charles's cock deeper and Charles won't let him.

"Look at you," Charles whispers. He needs discipline of his own to take one last sip of water; the sight of Erik like this leaves his mouth dry. "If I were there I would show you what you look like, what you sound like, squirming and panting like a whore, like the dirty little cumslut you are. Only you're my whore, aren't you? I'm the one to ruin you; you can't find anyone else to do this to you. You _need_ me, Erik. Say it."

"I need you." Erik's eyes roll back a bit and he swallows. "Please, _please_."

"And I'll give you what you need, my love," Charles murmurs, putting the glass on the bedside table and lacing his fingers. The sweet, high sound of relief that escapes Erik's throat pulls a laugh from him. "Only after you tell me what you did wrong tonight, pet, and apologize."

The look on Erik's face, of blank-eyed shock – then anger – then swift humiliation – needs no telepathy for Charles to interpret it. _What do you mean, I've done everything you want, oh god oh god_. Erik in seminar or lab needs a cipher; in bed, he's so beautifully transparent, a prism that breaks up the white light of his desire and lays it bare for Charles.

"Tell me," Charles says.

"I – I should have – should – I did not properly express my appreciation," Erik grinds out. "I was shy." His hips stutter, his cock dripping precome that, on a charitable night, Charles would lick up. "I was… oh _god_ I was angry with you. I rebelled," and here Erik shuts his eyes for a moment before remembering, the blush on his cheeks darkening. A curl of hair has stuck to his forehead, the lines etched in it - Charles bends closer to look, while those eyes are closed. The lines make all sorts of interesting patterns as Erik fights for the control that's long since gone. "I didn't – I didn't _obey_."

"And are you sorry?"

"Please – I – yes. Yes, sir."

Charles relaxes back onto his pillows. "Come now, then."

Erik does, gorgeously, the mathematical curve of his back pushing his hips and cock at the screen as his head tips back. He comes in long pulses against his belly and onto the duvet, ass clenching around the vibrator still pulsing away inside it, his lovely cock jerking and a few more spurts catching against the fabric of the tie. Erik's hands open and close spasmodically. And the sound he makes, god, Charles is going to have a _Greatest Hits of Erik Lehnsherr_ mixtape made to listen to when he and Erik can't talk or be together, turn it up on his stereo and listen to Erik coming and crying and giving incoherent thanks to Charles in fucking Dolby surround.

The vibrator keeps going.

Good boy, he hadn't taken coming as implied permission to turn it off. Of course now he's shattered and hyperstimulated from his orgasm, his cock dragging through the come he's smeared all over the bed like the filthy boy he is. And Erik can't keep his eyes open anymore, poor thing, Charles thinks with a click of his tongue. Tears are squeezing out over the ridges of Erik's cheekbones and dripping into his nose and the sweet indent of his philtrum. Charles watches him writhe and twist, listens to the wracking cries he can't even begin to think about keeping back. They aren't words and Charles is sure what he'd get from Erik's mind right now would be a similar tumble of wordlessness and incoherence, and Charles almost – almost – regrets he's already come, because this is orgasmic all on its own.

Finally Erik collapses, and Charles murmurs, "Turn it off now, pet."

Erik does, breathing out his thanks and coughing, licking blood away from his freshly-bitten lower lip.

"Untie yourself, take that thing out of your ass, and don't clean yourself up until tomorrow morning." He might not allow it under other circumstances, might want Erik to walk around all day with the reminder of Charles stamped all over him, but Erik has interviews tomorrow and Charles _is_ a professional, with a professional's attention to detail.

Talk of attention …

Charles gazes at the laptop through eyes half shut. Erik will clean himself up, yes, but he'll wallow in unacceptable feelings tomorrow morning as well. It's his way. Uncertainty, disbelief that he did what he did … and the insidious notion that Charles might some day tire of their game and cast him off, _that_ , for Erik, will throb just as much as his asshole. Charles makes a mental note: he will email Erik a list; text it tomorrow, too, at morning _his_ time. The dawn's early light can be as spangled with angst as Erik wants, when Charles is there to feed him breakfast. A full continent away, Charles will not permit it.

He keeps his voice warm and soft. "You were so good, my pretty slut. So good for me tonight."

"Thank you," Erik murmurs. His eyes are glazed, opaque glass that fixes on Charles. He means it, Charles knows, for more than the compliment.

"I'll be sending you your morning routine. Check your email before you do anything else."

"... 'kay."

"Words, Erik."

"Yes, sir. I will, sir."

"Good boy."

Charles watches him one moment more. If only the resolution were better ….

When he has Erik in his bed, he finds nothing more beautiful than those long lashes sweeping down to rest on flushed skin, at the very end, when his darling drops off. Erik can't hear his thoughts a continent away, but he nuzzles into the duvet with an adorable mumble - as if giving Charles just what he wants. As it should be. Always.

Well. Erik can't go to interviews spackled with come, but he can sign for room service .... Charles stretches and smiles. Breakfast sent up at eight a.m., sharp, then. Eggs … over easy, fresh fruit so Erik can lick the juice off his fingers.

"Sleep well, dearest," Charles says. He reaches for his laptop. The cursor hovers, curiously reluctant, over the button to end the session. "I'll see you soon."

"Good night," Erik murmurs, eyes sliding shut.

Charles doesn't end the call, just fills his mind with Erik spent and sprawling and filthy, _his_.


End file.
